fic: Into This New Love Die (Your Way Begins On the Other Side)
Title: Into This New Love Die (Your Way Begins On the Other Side)
Author: lonewytch
Pairing: Amy/Rory
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 639
Spoilers for The Angels Take Manhattan
A/N: Written for the Amy/Rory comment ficathon over on ladymercury_10 's journal. For the prompt: You're waiting for a train a la this gifset on tumblr. You're waiting for a train. A train that'll take you far away. You know where you hope this train will take you. But you can't know for sure. Yet it doesn't matter. How can it not matter? Because you'll be together.
Into this new love, die
your way begins
on the other side
become the sky
take an axe to the prison wall,
escape
walk out like someone
suddenly born into color
do it now
Rumi
Manhattan by night. A thousand words have been written about its skyline - books, songs, poems. Scraps of paper, scribbled onto then lost and forgotten forever, words given back to the city that made them. There are songs about towers of light puncturing the black shroud of night-time, the light mirroring a million-billion stars...stars that can barely be seen for the artificial glow refracting from water droplets in the air.
There are poems about the way this light streaks its way down onto the surface of the water, reflections rippling in a smudged imitation of concrete, glass and metal. The glow of the city is shaped by lines and verses, layers of reflections on light seeping through the skin of the water which cradles it.
Books are written about a place which scrapes the clouds out of the sky, that calls sky and sea its own, where the sidewalk is a world held between the light above and the hidden stone beneath.
Manhattan at night is beautiful. Beautiful in its outer skin, beautiful where its people are unseen within. Beauty is found in small acts of hope and mercy that make up the fabric of the place but are largely unremembered. Lonely acts of prayer and redemption, utterings in the dark, small kindnesses which make the city breathe. Most of them go unnoticed, unremarked by those who write the tomes of history. Some events are not important. Some are unseen but that doesn’t make them unimportant - it just makes them secret.
Then, some events are witnessed by only two people, an ageless God with gold under his skin and the woman born out of Time who walks at his side. Some events are so important that they crack the living, stone hearts of those creatures who would steal the future away from itself.
Look now. Here is one of these small things that lies unseen but by the two who watch it and the two who will stitch themselves so deeply into the fabric of the city that they are inseparable from its safekeeping.
On the top of a building no one remembers but for the fact that it is insignificant, but for the fact that strange statues wait outside its walls, a man and a woman stand with feet pressed to the edge of the rooftop. There is life on the top of that building, where they stand - a giant statue stalking, opening a mouth lined with teeth sharp as gravestones, cold to the touch. There is a life within that cold touch - one man’s movement back through time, a journey of a tide turning backwards and the ebbing of age.
There is death too on the top of that building. The crossing to the other place, the place beyond where no one can say for sure what shape or what form it takes. There is the quick plunge to the street below, wind rippling and ripping at hair and clothes, skin and bone hitting hard against ground. The shattering of bodies and blood marking the street, the sidewalk drinking the crimson liquid, breath stolen and held forever by the city.
Then there is a third thing. There is possibility, the life unlived and the journey unseen - neither life nor death but both at once. The type of miracles born out of Love such as you only find in stories. See now how this man and woman sway at the edge of possibility, at the place where air kisses brick and concrete. See how they write themselves anew and time shudders around them caught in the wake of their words.
A God pleads. A daughter looks on. They fall.
The journey is unwritten - but it doesn't matter where they are going. How can it not matter to them?
Because they will be together.